


What if we Close our Eyes?

by orphan_account



Category: Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Fluff, M/M, POV Bram Greenfeld, Simon finding out Blue's identity, adorable Bram, tilt a whirl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 19:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bram's POV from getting Simon's last email to the end of the book. <3 Just some fluff for my boys, Bram gets a little dark but it's all in his head. I promise this is the fluffiest thing you'll read all day.





	What if we Close our Eyes?

By the time I get his email, it’s almost too late. I sit on my bed and read it. There’s a lump in my throat before I even begin.

FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com  
DATE: Jan 25 at 9:27 AM  
SUBJECT: Us.

_Blue,  
I’ve been writing and deleting and rewriting this email all weekend, and I still can’t get it right. But I’m going to do this. So here we go._

Oh, Simon, if only you knew how much I rewrite my emails to you. Every single one, because what if I came across as the wrong person? What if you decided you were tired of me before you even know me?

_I know I haven’t written in a while. It’s been a weird couple of weeks._

When you got my t-shirt, did you laugh? Did you shrug? I wonder if you’ve ever worn it. You must have not found the note, you never called… or worse, you found it, but you didn’t answer.

_So, first I want to say this: I know who you are._

I’m not Cal Price.

_I mean, I still don’t know your name, or what you look like, or all the other stuff. But you have to understand that I really do know you. I know that you’re smart and careful and weird and funny._

That’s who I am in our emails. On my computer screen, I can be whoever I want to be. I can edit, rewrite, reread. I can be who you want me to be. I was brave enough to offer you my phone number, Simon. But I don’t know if I can go through with it- in real life, there’s no edits. Besides, I think everyone but me knew I wasn’t the guy you wanted...

_And you notice things and listen to things, but not in a nosy way. In a real way. You overthink things and remember details and you always, always say the right thing._

You’re too good for me, Simon. You’re the funny one, I spend hours thinking of my witty replies. How can you always see the best in me?

_And I think I like that we got to know each other from the inside out._

I love it. But I always knew it my heart it was you.

_So, it occured to me that I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about you and rereading your emails and trying to make you laugh._

You don’t have to try to make me laugh. And oh. You think about me. I don’t know if I can handle this.

_But I’ve been spending very little time spelling things out for you and taking chances and putting my heart on the line._

Oh, Simon. Yours is always, always on the line. I love that about you. But putting mine on the line is far more difficult.

_Obviously, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, but what I’m trying to say is that I like you. I more than like you. When I flirt with you, it’s not a joke, and when I say I want to know you, it’s not just because I’m curious._

There’s a burn, a tug in my lower stomach as I read that line. Simon.

_I’m not going to pretend to know how this ends, and I don’t have a freaking clue if it’s possible to fall in love over email._

It is.

_But I would really like to meet you, Blue. I want to try this. And I can’t imagine a scenario where I wouldn’t want to kiss your face off as soon as I see you._

Would you feel that if you knew who I was?

_Just wanted to make that perfectly clear._  
So, what I’m trying to say is that there’s an extremely badass carnival in the parking lot of Perimeter Mall today, and it’s apparently open until nine. For what it’s worth, I’ll be there at six thirty. And I hope I see you.  
Love,  
Simon 

Love. Lovelovelovelovelove. Simon. My head spins. My breathing is shallow. This is it. If I want to take a chance, put myself on the line, it happens now. If I want to spend my life wary, watching, I won’t go. But I can imagine Simon’s reaction. His face falling. His gray, gray eyes tearful. I can’t.  
I grab my keys and drive to the carnival. It’s 8:15. He’s probably gone by now. But I’ll take the chance. Chances. Chances. I feel as if I’m taking so many. It’s scary. But maybe this is how you start. Baby steps. I calm my breathing.  
I don’t know where to go once I get to the carnival. I scan the list of rides. My eyes land on one towards the bottom. I smile, slowly. If I find him anywhere, it might as well be the Tilt-A-Whirl.  
He’s there. I see his legs peeking out of a metal pod. I’m scared. So, so scared. My palms are sweaty. I could turn back now. He’d never know, never even guess. How sad, but I guess it’s what I deserve for fading into the background. No matter what any book says, there’s no perks of being a wallflower.  
But I have to… I have to. It’s Simon. Simon.  
I repeat his name like a chant as I walk up to the ticket counter. There’s no line. I enter after a couple of giggling girls. I wish I could be as carefree right now. I mean, young love, right? I should be giddy. I can’t be…  
I steel myself. I walk to the pod where Simon is. Alone, of course. I have to play this right. Do I just come out and say I’m Blue? I have no more time to prepare. I’m right there.  
“Can I sit here?” Calm. calm. Breathe, dammit. He loosens the seatbelt, and I slide in. At least he hasn’t run away screaming yet. I should… I should say something. My eyes travel down. He’s wearing the shirt. He’s wearing the shirt. Did he get the note? Was the email a joke? I need to say something. I clear my throat.  
“I like your shirt.”  
“Thanks, it’s Elliott Smith,” he says.  
The operator locks us in. I feel lightheaded.  
“I know.” I lock eyes with him. I don’t look away. We look at eachother. And look and look. I see his gray eyes widen. My stomach jolts, like when you’re riding a rollercoaster and it drops. It’s not an unpleasant sensation. But I feel the slightly suffocating feeling of having no idea what comes next.  
“It’s you,” he says. There’s no question in his voice.  
“I know I’m late,” I say, because what else can I say?  
The ride starts, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed. Scared. What am I doing here? I cover my nose and mouth with my hands. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I shut my eyes. I am so, so happy to be here with Simon. But I think that maybe if I shut my eyes, I can go back to my bedroom, back to where I hadn’t yet made the decision. Back to where my heart wasn’t yet on the line, cold and open. So open.  
I don’t even notice the ride spinning and spinning. I focus on Simon. The smell of him next to me, the sound of him breathing. The feel of his arm brushing against mine. I focus on these details, and yet I can’t bring myself to look at him yet. To maybe see disappointment. I’m not who he wants, but am I? The ride finally spins to a stop. I exhale.  
“Sorry,” I say. My eyes are still shut tight against the world.  
“It’s okay,” he says. And oh, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of his voice. Unless he gets tired of me. “Are you okay?”  
I nod. “Yeah. I will be.” Because I’m not quite yet. When you’re someone like me, it takes awhile for your heart to recover from being set on the line.  
We walk off the ride. I stumble over to the curb, feeling almost drunk, and tuck my head between my knees. My mom says I make this position to guard off demons. In a way, she’s right.  
“I just got your email,” I say. “I was sure I was going to miss you.”  
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he says. I panic mildly. What does that mean? Does he hate me?  
“It’s me,” I reply hesitantly. I’m finally brave enough to open my eyes. But I can’t look straight at him, not yet. “You really didn’t know?”  
“Not a clue.” And it’s strange. I would assume that, if I heard that statement from his lips, I would feel a burning anger. But no. It’s more like a sort of sadness; a soft, pulsing kind. He’ll never want it to be me. He’ll never want me. And there’s something comforting about knowing this for certain.  
I turn towards him. I feel brave now, braver. But I don’t think I’m fully prepared for the onslaught of him: his gray eyes, his perfectly messy hair, those fucking glasses. So heartbreakingly him, so Simon Spier that I can hardly breathe. This boy will be the death of me. He looks away. He’s nervous. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if I’m playing this, reading him all wrong.  
“I thought I was so obvious,” I say, because I thought I was. He shakes his head. ANd dammit, my stomach flutters. “I think I wanted you to know.” And I did. So, so badly. It felt like the wish was ingrained in me, a part of me I cannot control.  
“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”  
“Because,” I say, my voice quivering. “Because, if you had been looking for it to be me, I think you would have guessed it yourself.” I can see in his eyes that I’m right. Of course, I already know who he was looking for it to be. Cal Price. I get a bitter taste in my mouth.  
“But you never gave me clues.”  
“I did.” I smile. He sounds adorably confused, and even through all these conflicting emotions I feel a flash of amusement. “My email address.”  
“Bluegreen118.” And oh. There’s something about hearing him say my email out loud that makes this all seem realer. The concrete presses against my butt. I shift.  
“Bram Louis Greenfield. My birthday.”  
“Jesus, I’m an idiot,” he says. He’s not. Never, never in a million years. I tell him this.  
“I’m sorry,” he says. The carnival lights are reflected in his eyes.  
“For what?”  
“For not figuring it out.”  
“It would have been completely unreasonable of me to expect that.” And it would. But I have to admit there was some part of me that wanted, so badly, to have him figure it out. For him to want it to be me.  
“You guessed it was me.” Oh, Simon, I needed it to be you. I can’t tell him that, not yet. I have a few flickers of hope in me now. He’s still here. He didn’t run away. That counts for something.  
“Well, yeah. I kind of guessed a long time ago. Except I thought maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see.” Kind of like the way I watched you every lunch, looking for some sign. I would convince myself that you ate strawberry yogurt, which was pink, so you must be gay. Now I don’t know what’s more painful: to know you’re gay but to know you’re not in love with me like I am with you, or to not know anything at all.  
“I guess I should’ve shut up about who my English teacher is,” he says hesitantly.  
“Wouldn’t have helped.” I feel that flicker of amusement again, though my stomach is still tied up in knots, and I have no idea what’s happening.  
“Oh no?”  
“You sort of talk the way you write.”  
“No freaking way.”  
I tilt my head to study his face. He’s grinning, one of his amazingly Simonish grins that is somewhere between a grin and a beam. It’s gorgeous, of course. The lights start turning off, and I know I should head home. But then SImon scoots closer to me.  
Our arms almost touch. My hands are so sweaty, and I don’t know what to do with them. Our hands are millimeters apart. I twitch, wanting nothing more than to intertwine my fingers with his. I don’t understand this at all, but the confusion is worth the chance to sit this close to Simon Spier.  
“But how are you a president?” He asks suddenly.  
“What?”  
“The same name as a former president.”  
“Oh. Abraham.”  
“Ohhh.”  
And I don’t know. There’s something about telling him my name, my real name. I suddenly want to hear him say it, so bad. It’s an ache deep in my stomach.  
“And I can’t believe you rode the Tilt-A-Whirl for me,” he says.  
“I must really like you.” I do.  
He leans towards me. My breath catches. Is he going to kiss me? I want to bottle up this moment, so I can play it and replay it.  
“I want to hold your hand,” he says softly. So softly. There’s nothing I want more in this moment.  
“So do,” I say.  
He does. I look at him, at the galaxies of his eyes. I can see it now, in the future. Our milestones. Together. First kiss. First… time. I want this so badly, this us. But for now, I’ll take this. I’ll take Simon Spiers warm hands clasped in mine. I’ll take this damp pavement and swirling carnival lights. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, hope you enjoyed! Maybe check me out on tumblr? I do lots of stuff: photos, aesthetic collages, book reviews... yeah yeah yeah, you get it. https://broadway-silvernerd.tumblr.com


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